75 Not Out
January 18th, 2009
The Royal Free Hospital is surrounded by thick black cloud but in the east there are streaks of pink announcing the arrival of the dawn. And overhead the sky is as blue as a sailor’s trousers. The pavements of Parliament Hill are shining with yesterday’s rain under the street lights, still not switched off. On this date, and at this time, 75 years ago I was already showing that obstinacy that so irritates my family and friends. Resisting my mother’s efforts to rid herself of the ten pound painful burden I had become.
I still hate doing anything until I feel ready to do it. And can often be found still in my dressing gown at noon.
Today I know there will be hell to pay unless I get up quick because I know that an unknown number of the neighbours are due to burst in at noon.
I know that because yesterday, when I answered the doorbell at 12.30 there on the doorstep were two of my neigbours with big smiles. She was carrying a paper bag with a box inside it wrapped with ribbon. He, a giant Spaniard, enfolded me in a bear hug, warming my cold English blood with his Latin hot passion. Better a day early than a day late. They have promised to come back again today. I have to wait til then to discover just what is in the paper bag.
I do know that I am getting a black woollen overcoat from my eldest daughter because she dragged me down to Oxford Street on Friday. We finally found something I did not object to in Muji. It was £44 knocked down from £125 but when my daughter got it to the counter to ask the assistant how to get out one or two creases, she was told that the price was now £10. So I am also getting a purple cardigan, another bargain at £19.
At the cash point yesterday I met the new lady of our local Rumpole of the Bailey, who told me that January 18 was the birthday of her daughter who had died a few years ago. I murmured something appropiate. She said, ‘No’, she no longer felt sad because she had worked it through. Indeed her face was shining with happiness and she could not wait to run back to the car, where our Rumpole was waiting.
He is a lucky chap. His first wife died four years ago and now he has found another woman who thinks he is the greatest.
Sir John Mortimer, who died yesterday aged 85 also had two adoring wives, both called Penny. And it took two full pages of The Guardian to record his many accomplishments at the bar and as a writer.
Alas I don’t have his talent and prodigious energy. But at least I can write a few more blogs before I make a little space on the planet for the next generation to have their say.